


Where The White Whales Roll

by FAB900



Series: Gold Fronts [1]
Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Breeding, Come Eating, Dialogue Heavy, Dubious Consent, Face-Sitting, First Time, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Innocence, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Obsession, Rimming, Sexual Confusion, Stalking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22879060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FAB900/pseuds/FAB900
Summary: "You don't like to make connections, Sam - because you can't lose anything, if you don't have anything to lose..."
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges/Higgs Monaghan
Series: Gold Fronts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644628
Comments: 8
Kudos: 136
Collections: Depravity In Writing





	Where The White Whales Roll

**Author's Note:**

> No Mpreg, despite the breeding tag.

_Morning._

_Dreary white walls; harsh lighting._

_Silence._

_No Lou._

_Deadman. Don't take her._

_Amelie. She's waiting._

_A gold mask._

_Higgs. His hands, his breath, his voice—_

_A soldier. A battlefield._

_His BB._

_Lucy. Lucy. Lucy._

_He messed up._

_It hurts._

_No more._

_Please._

_Louise… Lou… Lucy..._

_He's sorry._

...

Sam jolts awake, disjointed thoughts fading away as the same familiar electronic voice greets him. The Mountain Knot safe house looks the same as any other one he's stayed at, yet _this_ one seems much more bleak. Most likely because his little buddy isn't with him – Deadman had snatched her away with talks about 'resetting' the foetus, and Sam stares at the pod-shaped hole on the wall, heart aching. He doesn't want Lou to forget him. But the alternative doesn't bear thinking about, either. Tiny, adorable Lou is a small speck of light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel the porter has lost himself in for so many years, and he can't lose her, can't risk losing someone else important to him – he won't be able to pick himself back up again if he does.

If Lou has to lose her memories to stay with him, then so be it. They can make more; better ones. She's young, so young, that they'll have plenty of time to do so.

Knowing that he's fantasising about things he shouldn't, Sam sits up and snaps his cuffs into place. Back at Capital Knot, Amelie had said they weren't handcuffs, that they were proof of their bonds or some shit, yet Sam questions the design in the first place. Must be symbolic. To be honest, Sam doesn't _really_ care that much to figure it out. They're useful, and that's all that he needs to know.

Seconds past as the porter fidgets on the bed, stealing glances at the wall where Lou would be. It feels strange, not talking to her in the morning. A creature of habit, Sam's day always starts with checking up on his partner. Now everything feels wrong, out of whack, unstable. Aiming to distract himself, he flicks through his terminal. Reads some emails, turns on some music, drinks some Monster – he leaves the jar of Cryptobiotes untouched – and settles back down on the bed, joints popping and bones creaking as he does.

Fuck. He's worked himself too hard again; even a man like him has his limits. Aches and pains throughout his body make themselves known as the minutes stretch on, muscles tense as the overworked porter rolls his shoulders.

Maybe a shower is in order. Yeah. A nice soak under hot water should do the trick – not before a toilet break, however. What kind of monster showers first, _then_ uses the toilet? An absolute savage, that's who, Sam thinks, begrudgingly standing up again to amble on over to the stall.

An uncomfortably intimate experience with the toilet aside – its thorough cleaning functions are hard to get used to, no matter how many times he's used it – Sam strips, tossing away the tar-stained undergarments he had been wearing into a chute near the bed, that, Sam presumes, either gets cleaned or recycled. With no Lou, avoiding BTs is near impossible – the black sludge clinging to his skin is proof enough, sticky handprints covering the surface of his flesh, and, underneath _that_ , a layer of blood from all the tumbles he had taken too; either from hastily running away from the spectres and falling over, or just being plain impatient and misjudging heights.

Sam looks at the fogged-up mirror when he passes by it. If Lou was here, he'd be pulling faces in it. Today, he leaves it, the blurry outline of his naked figure disappearing as he meanders into the shower, flicking on the switch so a hot burst of water streams from the nozzle.

Privacy, at last. Bridges-owned rooms are recorded for the most part; the shower, however, is (apparently) a sanctuary from the constant surveillance. When Sam had first realised he was being watched months ago, he had been far more meek when getting undressed, stripping as close to the stall as possible and hiding his genitals behind his hands, the concept of being observed 24/7 after years of isolation too intrusive. Nowadays, however, he strips in the middle of the room, not caring if his bare body is on show – Bridges can spy on him all they like, if that's their prerogative. There are bigger things to worry about, rather than wondering if some weirdo is staring at his marked, scarred body. It isn't like Sam does anything scandalous or weird in the room, so he doesn't have much to be embarrassed about.

The water is _just_ the right temperature as it hits him, hot enough that Sam can almost feel the grimy, lingering touches of the BTs melt away. Not completely – there will always be a phantasmal residue of their vice-like grip etched into the porter's memories, each encounter somehow always worse than the last. A shiver shoots up Sam's spine as he recalls his previous close encounters, and hastily he turns his attentions back to washing himself, scraping off the gunk with his blunt fingernails and wondering if the water temperature is calculated off his vitals data on the cuffs. Maybe he should thank Heartman; something so precise, so exact (and downright nosy, truthfully) can only be his doing.

What a weird man. Rambles on a lot – Sam's eyes often glaze over whenever he reads any interviews that pertain to the researcher, the amount of waffling making him lose interest about halfway through. _And_ he has too much of a keen interest in bodily fluids, which, even from a scientific viewpoint, is just fucking _creepy_.

However eccentric Heartman is, it pales in comparison to that of the bastard in the golden mask. The mere thought of him has Sam frowning, the ghostly remembrance of his touches forcing a shudder out of him. Higgs. That fucker knows exactly what to do to rile him up, and for someone as reclusive as Sam, the thought is devastating. For so long, he had believed that he had been able to lock his vulnerabilities away, out of sight, and surrounded himself in a fortified, impenetrable cage to protect himself – yet evidently, the lock isn't as good as he had believed. Higgs hadn't even needed the key – just smashed his way through the door and found the floundering, vulnerable porter inside, so very alone and lost.

Sam hates it. He hates _him_ , and wonders how the terrorist knows so much, despite never speaking a word to him (mostly out of terror, rather than out of defiance); is Higgs getting his information through the UCA? The Chiral Network? Sam's bled dry every night, blood collected for strangers to use, and all his personal details, from his heart rate to body temperature is broadcasted across the network for Bridges to analyse and pick apart, so there's probably a slew of information on him in their archives. Despite that, though, Sam doubts Higgs is combing through some reports to gain the upper hand – it's just like he _knows_ , a sixth sense – and the courier questions _how_ much the other man is clued into, and _why_.

Shoulders tensing and anxiety rising, Sam leans against the shower wall, the water not doing much to soothe him. Overworked, tired, and aching – the consequences of rushing around, trudging through mile after mile of deep snow so he can have Lou back, _quick_ ; he's nothing without her. Even though his weary bones and burned-out muscles are protesting, Sam is itching to jump out of the shower and get back to work hooking up the various preppers to the Chiral Network. But he doesn't – the porter knows that he needs a break, that going back to it _now_ will just be inefficient. The more well-rested he is, the quicker he can do his job.

What Sam really needs more than anything is to just _relax_. The stress of 'do this, do that' has built up over the weeks; getting adjusted to having take orders again hasn't been easy, and honestly, Sam misses the quiet life of being alone, doing things on his own terms and not being at everyone's beck and call – reality isn't that kind to him, though, and being left to his own devices is nothing more than wishful thinking these days.

God, he's half-expecting Heartman to call him soon and ask why he is taking so long in the shower, or Die-Hardman to drop another load of orders on him with his usual high expectations, as if carrying over a hundred of kilograms of cargo is a simple thing to do. Fuck. Now Sam is even more uneasy. Perhaps he should shoot up some oxy to chill out, because he sure as hell isn't going to get some the natural way. Not that the porter finds the idea very appealing. Something about using drugs to simulate basic human functions is just another reminder of how fucked-up the world is.

...There's something else Sam can do, yet he isn't proud of the method. He only did 'it' during desperate times; but, arguably, _this_ is one of those times. Even though doing 'it' in a safe room, with Bridges looming just beyond the glass doors is terrifying – what if he gets caught? Would Die-Hardman reprimand him and tell him to stop wasting the UCA's time? Would he become known as some sort of pervert among the staff?

Despite the thoughts, Sam's traitorous hands are already moving south, a sickly sort of anticipation building. Shaky fingers brush along the edges of his abs, causing the courier to flinch as he accidentally tickles himself, breath catching. His heart is banging away like a drum, the spike in his pulse almost certainly being transmitted to Bridges for analysis. Surely numbers alone can't indict him for anything, or so Sam hopes – the fear of being caught out pushes him on, fingertips dancing past an age-old scar that he has always wondered how he had gotten, but never asked, moving lower until he reaches a sparse patch of pubic hair.

Personal enjoyment is out of the question; Sam's never truly enjoyed touching himself without a trace of guilt on the side. The act, to him, has always been forbidden, perhaps even sinful. Something that Bridget had drilled into him as a youth after she caught him tentatively exploring his own body one time during his pubescent years – to her, masturbating was unnatural, inappropriate, and no way how the president's son should behave, it was _dirty_ – the talking-down to has stuck with Sam since, the mortification never leaving him. Bridget had been an almost absent, yet overprotective figure in his life; even his education had been written to her specifications. The private tutor he spent the majority of his time with growing up never spoke about personal matters, just about lessons, and the change in curriculum one day to include a brief, short talk and diagram on sexual matters had been dry and inadequate, swiftly replaced by pre-Death Stranding history and cultures. All that Sam had gleaned from the lesson was sex happened between a man and woman for the sole purpose of procreation.

Any arousal Sam feels dies away rapidly as he remembers his teenage years. Masturbating in the shower is an unfortunately nostalgic memory. While Bridget had scolded him, his growing body had other ideas, the initial amazing sensation he had felt upon masturbating for the first time making the temptation grow and grow until sheer impulse took over – he had needs, and not wanting to get caught again, had done them in the privacy of the shower, knowing that his adoptive mother would be unlikely to walk in on him there. As an adult, Sam still doesn't know if touching himself is normal, having removed himself so far from normal society that he didn't truly know. Lucy had mentioned it once, in passing – but he'd been far too embarrassed at the time to talk about it, worried that she'd scorn him too.

Unease coils up in the courier's guts as he grabs his penis, tugging at the flaccid member in an attempt to coax it to life. In spite of how long the last time had been – probably three weeks ago – his cock refuses to cooperate. The previous session hadn't been great; rough and full of fear, worry chewing away at him as he holed up in a cave, Lou hidden behind a rock while he jerked off, hand clamped over his mouth so his cuffs didn't record his moans. The experience hadn't been enjoyable at all – a random porter could've stumbled upon him – yet he _had_ come, the evidence of his deviancy splattered on the dirt at his booted feet.

Thin wisps of steam swirls around Sam, doing a poor job of concealing his debauchery. Frustrated at his unresponsive dick, he plays with the tip, squeezes his balls, but nothing works: _shit_. Now Sam's in an even worse position that he started in, pent-up and needing release, yet unable to get hard. What the fuck should he do now? Desperate, he turns his thoughts to Lucy, the only person he had ever felt comfortable enough to be intimate with.

Soft, warm. That's what Sam remembers of her – a supple body that had been unthreatening and welcoming in the cover of darkness, her voice gentle, and hands tender as they guided him, handling him like the most fragile of cargo – there hadn't been any patronising nor put-downs in the beginning, even when he came too fast from inexperience or didn't know what to do. No; she would smile, kiss away his tears of shame, tell him that next time, he'd do better - those rare moments was when she was at her kindest, and Sam has always wondered if his fumbling had somehow been endearing to her. He's getting hard again, recalling those nights with Lucy – yet there's also a profound sadness that comes along with it, a deep yearning settling in his chest for things he can't have, things that are gone and are never coming back.

Not wanting to lose his much sought after erection, Sam diverts his attentions away from the woman he loved, continuing to stroke at the length. He has never been one to fantasise, the idea of doing such a taboo act enough to get him to come quickly, no need for external stimuli from mental projections and make-believe – but doubts and worries are already sneaking back into the forefront of his mind, and relenting, Sam racks his brain for people he can realistically put into that role, anyone who he knows and has a modicum of a connection with.

Not that trying to imagine another human touching him is easy. A stranger will make him go soft out of disgust. And, as much as the porter hates to taint somebody by involving their mere image into his own degenerate fantasies, a mental list forms. Fragile is out – she's already been degraded enough by someone she had trusted. Using Mama is just sick, considering her recent death. Lockne is barely an acquaintance. The multiple female preppers he had met on his journey so far had seemed nice enough, yet they do nothing for him.

Chewing his lips and cupping his balls, Sam pushes down the list, mind wandering to the men in his life. Homosexuality is a term he's familiar with – Lucy had asked him, once, during their early therapy sessions, if he was attracted to men, and Sam hadn't even realised until that moment that two men _could_ have sex. Yet that was as far as his curiosity had gone – now, however, he thinks about it a little deeper. How, exactly, did sex between two men happen? Did it stop at touching? Handjobs, blowjobs, etc.?

He can't picture himself sucking someone off, the thought of someone else's genitals inside his mouth a little nauseating, _but_ on the flip side, _being_ the one on the receiving end is tantalising in all the right ways. The first time he'd been blown, Sam had come nearly instantly – the warm suction, the tongue probing at the tip; in the present, the porter's hand works faster at the phantom sensation he can distantly recollect, placing various people in the role where Lucy would have been.

Die-Hardman is a no because of the mask, too much of a faceless enigma for Sam to feel comfortable with. Heartman is too strange; he'd probably talk more than he would suck. Deadman is a possibility, yet he's also the closest thing to a friend and Sam doesn't want to tarnish their relationship.

Frighteningly, his mind wanders to Higgs, skin crawling as the man's predatory touches and drawling voice floods his senses as he remembers them. Hell no. There's no way that he would jerk off to America's number one enemy – Sam continues his mental search, dozens of faces flying past his eyes as he hops from one person to the next, none of them seeming appropriate.

Sam stops stroking himself when the face of the mysterious soldier conjures up. The man is a stranger – yet there's a connection there… the porter can't explain what it is, but he had felt it on the battlefield upon seeing him. Is it their shared fondness of Lou? The desire to protect the BB? Sam isn't sure, but all he knows is that the soldier had been an incredibly handsome man, that even someone as uninterested in other people as himself can appreciate the stranger's odd beauty; high cheekbones, rich, accented voice and overall masculine confidence. It takes a moment for Sam to realise he's masturbating again, hips rolling as he fucks into his fist.

This isn't right, yet Sam can't stop. It's surprisingly easy, to visualise the soldier pressing him against the wall of a trench, strong hands planted firmly on his shoulders as he leans in, the scent of cigarette smoke and gunpowder so intense, so vivid, that Sam can almost smell it outside of his fantasy, manly and overpowering, just like the war veteran himself. What would it feel like, to kiss him, the porter wonders, pre-cum slicking the movements of his hand. Less gentle than with a woman, Sam assumes, and tasting of tar instead of the syrupy sweetness that came from lipstick.

Closing his eyes so he can see the images that come to his mind more easily, Sam finds that the idea of embracing another man is not wholly unpleasant, the instinctive repulsion he usually feels due to his aphenphosmphobia not rearing its ugly head for once. Grateful, he pushes on with the daydream, thinking about the soldier kissing him, slowly unzipping his Bridges-issued jumpsuit and reaching in to grab his cock.

Back in reality, the courier lets out a low whine, body craving for a touch it knows it can't handle but longs for anyway. Clumsily fondling his dripping erection and embarrassingly close to the brink already, frayed nerves and high tension driving him towards it faster than usual. When he re-enters his dreams, Sam has to squeeze the base of his cock as he envisions the combat veteran sinking to the ground, almost coming at the image of the mysterious man's dark eyes boring into him before swallowing his dick whole.

It's becoming harder to focus on the fantasy as Sam thumbs the tip of his leaking penis, pleasure clouding his head. The soldier's imaginary wet mouth is all he can think about, sucking him, licking him, a single tar tear rolling down his cheek and dripping off a stubbly jaw, lips in a twisted sneer—

—The man is laughing, somehow, despite still sucking, all while digging the edges of his nails into Sam's thighs, hard, so hard that blood seeps from the wounds, dozens of sticky BT hands clawing at Sam's ankles. Brown, warm eyes drain of their colour, leaving behind only a steely grey full of mirth and cruelty—

" _Higgs_!" Sam gasps, fist stilling as he wrenches himself out of the fantasy; he's too late, however, and no sooner than the glare of the white walls come back into view, he's coming to the image of Higgs' crazed, mocking face and harsh laughter echoing in his ears. Sam shakes as cum dribbles into his hand, stomach churning. Even in moments of fabricated dreams, Higgs manages to invade them, the bastard.

Heaving, with an immense amount of guilt weighing upon him, Sam stares at the release staining his palm, body tingly and boneless. Something in the back of his mind is niggling at him, but the porter pushes away the doubts, going to clean his hand—

At that movement, his brain screams, and Sam abruptly remembers – _the shower collects his bodily fluids_.

Panicking at the thought of Heartman calling up to talk about the properties of his semen in far too much detail, Sam acts fast, slapping the stained palm over his mouth and gulping down the evidence of his sins. It's foul; warm and salty, the consistency thicker than he expected, yet Sam swallows it reluctantly, wanting to keep his remaining dignity intact.

His dignity shatters when something glints in his peripheral vision, a golden glow underneath the artificial lights nearly blinding him. All the elation that came with his orgasm seeps out from every single pore, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread instead.

It can't be. No way.

"Oh, finally noticed me, have you?"

Higgs. Fucking _Higgs_ , of all people, is stood on the other side of the shower door, _watching_ , with no BB, no grenades, nor armour on his chest, Amelie's quipu around his neck.

"Didn't have to stop on my account, you know… I was enjoying your, ah, 'performance'," Higgs claps his hands, the shower doors opening with a _swish_ as he did so, "or perhaps, it's time for the encore?"

Sam is frozen in place, staring in horror as Higgs steps into the stall while removing his masks, the door hissing shut behind him. Is this another hallucination? A bad dream? Sam hopes so, but as the other man hangs over him, body invading his personal space, it becomes more and more likely that no, this is real, this is _happening_.

"You still have some left," Higgs says, throwing his masks to one side and snatching up Sam's wrist, "don't worry, Sam – I'll help. It would be my pleasure to—"

Terrified, and his wrist burning, Sam tries to pull away, but Higgs holds fast, head dipping down to lick a wet stripe along the porter's palm. Noisily the terrorist slurps, his wide, rough tongue tracing the lines of Sam's hand as he laps up the remaining sperm.

"Delicious," breathes Higgs, licking his lips, "keeping such a delectable, precious commodity all to yourself… what a naughty boy."

"Get off—" Sam, this time, succeeds in pushing the other man away, backing up against the wall to put as much distance between them as possible and hunching over to preserve his modesty from Higgs' hungry eyes.

A disappointed tut escapes from the terrorist. "There's no need to run, Sam! You aren't on my kitty's menu today..." Higgs laughs, cornering the porter, "but I can't say you're not on _mine_."

"What – do you want?" Sam grinds out, jumping as Higgs slams his hands either side of his head, face mere inches away. What the fuck is happening? If he's not here to summon BTs, what else is he here _for_? Does he have another bomb, or is it something about Amelie?

Questions run through Sam's mind as Higgs replies, "Oh, I want a lot of things… some you can give me, some you can't, but we can talk about _that_ later." The terrorist looks down at him, water droplets dripping off of his soaked hood and splashing against Sam's face. "To be honest, Sam, I just missed you. Our last meeting was far too short… I had something good to show you, yet you didn't have any time for little old me, what with your hands being so full and all..." dramatically, Higgs sighs, as if Sam's busy schedule personally offends him, "so I thought to myself: 'why not visit my favourite porter at home instead?' – after all, you must be so tired..."

The separatist leans in, swiping a thumb around the courier's eye, "dark circles… you haven't been sleeping well, have you? Let me guess – nightmares? Or have you been overworking yourself again? Couldn't have been easy, dragging that woman up a mountain… only for her to die on ya' as soon as you delivered her. Tragic, Sam; you handled her with so much care, yet it was all for nothing."

"Have… you been _following_ me?" Sam questions, rattled at the notion. How many awkward, embarrassing moments had the terrorist been witness to?

"Yup," Higgs unabashedly admits, flashing Sam a toothy smirk, "watching your tumbles is pathetically endearing… you should really carry more climbing anchors, you know? Just a handy-dandy tip from one ex-porter to another."

"Freak," face flushing, Sam remembers that he'd taken a dip with Mama in a hot spring on the way to Mountain Knot – had Higgs been privy to that, too?

"Oh, that hurts," Higgs says, not sounding very wounded at all, "I'm only giving you some advice… or are you worried about what I've seen? Ah – you've gone red – have I hit the mark?"

Sam gives him a non-committal grunt in reply, and Higgs' smile only gets wider.

"Feeling shy? For a man who strips naked with another woman out in the open, I sure am surprised."

At first, Sam's blood runs cold, then it rapidly boils at the audacity of the other man; Mama's modesty had been tainted by the terrorist's voyeuristic gaze. Sam hadn't been a threat – but Higgs? Bathing, singing, and relaxing with Mama had been the small comfort Sam could have provided for her, after severing the cord to her child, yet the knowledge of Higgs lurking in the shadows has tarnished the memory significantly.

Angry, the porter reacts quickly, swinging a fist at that horribly mocking face, only for Higgs to grab his wrists – both of them – and pin them against the wall, leaving Sam to attempt to struggle free.

"You look _pissed_. What's wrong Sam – do you think that I ogled the pretty lady?" Higgs' mouth is so close to Sam's own, their breaths mingling together: "You're half-right, anyhow; I _was_ checking someone out… if you can guess who, I'll give ya' a prize. Sounds easy, doesn't it? You'll love it, I guarantee it."

"Fuck off," Sam spits, not wanting to partake in the man's game.

The comment makes the grip on his wrists tighten, "don't be a killjoy, my friend. Maybe you need a hint?" Higgs' lips barely graze against Sam's as they make their way to his ear: "The person I was watching is male, and sang a song – it went something like; ' _ba-ba-ba-ban-ban_ '—"

Of course Higgs had heard him sing. Of fucking course. The song echoes in Sam's ears as the terrorist's breathy voice tickles his skin, a shiver running down his spine.

"Clock's ticking, Sam. Better answer quick, or there might be another hungry pet of mine on the loose..."

_Shit_. He can't risk that – not in the middle of Mountain Knot. The place is too enclosed, too small for a fight to happen – so, begrudgingly, Sam answer. "Me. You were watching _me_." Why, he doesn't know, and doesn't want to ask, either. Being in the dark sounds preferable.

"Ding ding ding! Correct!" Higgs jumps back, releasing his hold and patting the courier's shoulder delightedly. He reaches into one of his sodden pockets and pulls out a clear bottle, a thick, viscous fluid swishing about inside of it. "Here's your prize. Found it in some lost cargo – thought I had more use for it than whoever it was intended for."

"What is it?"

"Gel," explains Higgs, infuriatingly vague, "meant for massages."

Sam frowns. Is Higgs going to force him to give him a massage? What a shitty prize, if that is the case. Surely the man can't be _that_ egotistical to believe that Sam would actually 'love' to touch his body, although the more the porter thinks about it, the less unlikely it seems. The separatist _does_ have a huge ego...

As if reading his thoughts, Higgs bursts out laughing. "The look on your face, Sam! Did you think I was going to make you do it for _me_?" The hand on his shoulder disappears, the other man using his teeth to remove his gloves and dropping them to the ground. "Oh, no no _no._ As nice as that sounds, I think _you_ deserve it more. Trudging through all that snow with the weight of the world on your shoulders – don't envy you, I've been there, done that—"

Talkative bastard. Sam can't really say he's listening, too hyperaware of Higgs' bare hands, one around the bottle, squeezing, and the other slicking up his fingers. Those appendages are going to be on his flesh, _touching him_.

"—I've been _such_ a thorn in your side lately. Not that I'm going to stop fucking with you, no way! Our meetings really break up the monotony, don't they?" Higgs shoves the bottle back into his pocket and rubs his palms together, slick, oily noises audible over the shower, "But, _regardless_ – I _do_ feel a teeny-weeny bit bad for you. You work so relentlessly for the cause that the sweet angel of death sings, but you'll find out soon that it will all be for naught. She's no angel. Not even a demon, Sam, but something else entirely..."

"Leave Amelie alone," Sam pulls away from Higgs' almost hypnotic hand movements, swallowing away his fears, "don't hurt her."

"Amelie, Amelie, Amelie… Amelie _this_ , Amelie _that_ , it's all so tiresome. Don't focus on _her_ , focus on _me_ , and the euphoria I'm about to make you feel."

As soon as the words hit Sam's ears, he makes a dash for it, elbowing the terrorist out of the way and pounding his fists against the door. The glass, however, stays resolute and firmly sealed, and moments later the presence of the other man shadows over him, his reflection in the glass making Sam tremble involuntarily.

The porter jumps when gel-coated hands wrap around his neck, fingers digging into his windpipe. Choking, Sam claws at the digits, knowing that the consequences for him aren't that severe yet not wanting to die from the hands of his enemy anyway.

"Ungrateful fucker," Higgs hisses into his ear, "do you _want_ me to summon some friends, or are you going to keep _still_?"

With dots appearing in Sam's vision, he nods hurriedly. Mountain Knot doesn't deserve to be levelled because of his reluctance to be touched – he doesn't need to be blamed for something like that for a second time.

Higgs lets go of him, and Sam crashes forward, cheek pressed against the door as he sucks in several steamy breaths, throat burning and eyes watering.

"Oops, got a bit rough there. Truthfully, I've never been good at handling fragile cargo...got heavy hands like my dear old daddy," Higgs says, and Sam hears the sound of more gel being applied to the terrorist's fingers from behind him. "Don't worry that empty little head of yours, Sam. I'm go to fix you right up."

An overwhelmingly sweet, fruity smell permeates the stall as hands make contact with Sam's shoulders, thumbs digging directly into two very tender sore spots. The sudden touch, combined with the cold, cold gel, makes Sam groan—

—Just as a voice pipes up over the speaker system.

"Sam? It's Heartman."

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Alarmed, Sam peers back at Higgs, unsure what to do. Any wrong move here could have disastrous consequences for the city; and, sadly, Higgs is as uncooperative as ever, simply rolling his eyes and putting a finger to his lips: _shush_.

Keeping silent isn't an option, Sam knows that – and as if on cue, Heartman speaks up again: "Sam? Are you okay in there? Your shower has been running for over forty-five minutes..."

Excuses and explanations run through the porter's head, yet nothing seems believable in the slightest. Telling the scientist that America's number one enemy is in his shower, groping him, probably isn't going to end well.

Either Higgs gets bored, or he enjoys seeing Sam flounder, but while the courier is preoccupied with planning what to say, the thumbs on his shoulder resume digging in deeper and deeper until Sam is forced to let out a quiet noise of pain.

"...Sam? Are you… with someone?" Heartman sounds as flustered as Sam feels, "I – I don't mean to pry, _but_...I _have_ detected someone else's DNA in your shower water..."

It isn't the way out Sam wants, yet he takes it anyway.

"Yeah," Sam admits, "I'm with someone."

Higgs chuckles in his ear, whispering low enough that it is unlikely Heartman can hear. " _The_ Sam Porter Bridges bringing men to his private quarters? How scandalous. What _would_ the dearly departed Bridget say?"

Sam tries to ignore him, turning redder by the second regardless. Hopefully Heartman is the only one listening in – and that he has the decency to keep the whole thing under wraps.

"Oh! Well – _I see_ ," Heartman coughs, "er, well, I'll leave you to have fun, then—"

"Can you switch off the cameras?" interrupts Sam, somewhat distracted by Higgs continuing to knead at his arms. He can't fathom how things will progress, yet he asks anyway, just in case.

"Sadly not. They've been off since you've entered the shower – once you leave, they'll come back on. Can't do anything about it, I'm afraid, it's the director's orders." Sam bangs his head against the glass door, frustrated. "Don't worry, though. We _usually_ tend to, er, look the other way once we notice things 'heating up', as they say. I mean – I don't catch porters doing the, uh, deed on purpose a lot, it just happens—oh? Shoot, I've gotta—"

There is a thump, then the call cuts off.

"So we're going to have an audience," Higgs eases up on his prodding, "fine by me. Now let's do what the strange man said and have some fun, shall we?"

"Let's not," Sam counters, twisting around so he can keep a very watchful eye on the terrorist. With his back to him, he feels too vulnerable – like prey, waiting to be pounced on.

"I _insist_ ," the other man says, an edge to his tone that Sam perceives as threatening. Swallowing thickly, the porter backs down, nodding, and Higgs' mood brightens considerably almost instantaneously: "Now, see, _that's_ the attitude I expect from the oh-so-great deliverer." Fingertips brush against Sam's nipples, and he flinches, gasping at the jolt it sends down his spine.

Higgs is eyeing him up, a stare so intense that Sam has to look away; he's never been good with maintaining eye contact at the best of times, let alone with somebody he despises.

"Interesting," hums Higgs, flicking at the perky little nubs, "didn't peg you as being sensitive there. You are so full of surprises, Samuel – no wonder you had to let loose all by yourself, if your body is _this_ lewd."

No, no.

He's not lewd. He's not immoral.

"S-stop," Sam stutters, and chewing at his lips when the man ignores his pleas, instead choosing to grab and grope at the porter's wide chest. His body burns at the touch, angry red marks appearing on his pale skin.

"Ah, I'm leaving handprints," Higgs points out, stroking at the bruises, "it's a shame these will fade eventually… I'd love to permanently mark you."

His fingers dip down, tracing Sam's abs and settling on the courier's waist, kneading softly around his hip bone.

"Are you enjoying this, Sam? I know _I_ am."

"...Just get it done with."

"So impatient," Higgs scolds, "have you never had a massage before? They're not done quickly."

"No."

"...Huh. Even _I've_ had one… several, in fact—"

"Didn't ask," Sam cuts in, grunting when Higgs' nails bite into his skin at the remark.

"You're kind of rude. Don't you want to hear about my time as a porter? It might be useful..." Higgs drums his fingers against Sam's hip, looking lost in thought, "...do you ever rest at prepper shelters? Do good by them, and they'll let you in. Another useful tip from yours truly."

"Knew that already," Sam says, curtly. He often rests at the Craftsman's shelter; one of the few people who lets him in. Or at the Ludens Fan's, despite its awkward placement. Truthfully, Sam just hangs out there so he can check out the man's impressive figurine collection.

"I'm sure you do..." Higgs drops to his knees, grabbing and massaging at the porter's calves, "did you know what other… 'services' they can provide, though, Sam?"

Cocking his head questioningly and quelling the urge to knee the man in the face, Sam wonders what else a prepper can do for him. They already let him sleep, eat, freshen up _and_ charge up his equipment—

"So many lonely, lonely, preppers out there. Most haven't had human contact for years," Higgs rubs in circles, and despite the trepidation surging through his veins, Sam exhales in satisfaction, his aching muscles relaxing under the touch, "most wouldn't say no to a quick fuck."

A beat passes, then two – dumbfounded, Sam replays what Higgs just said in his head, lips quirking in disgust at the vulgarity of it. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What's 'wrong' with me?" chuckling, the terrorist slides his palms up to Sam's thighs, "a lot of things. But even _I_ know that sex is the quickest way to create connections, Sam – aren't you all about those?"

"I..." Sam shirks away when Higgs' hands begin to stroke the inside of his thighs, the gel no longer cold, but oddly tingly and warm.

Higgs, seemingly noticing his discomfort, pecks a quick, chaste kiss to his knee, lips curled into a grin. "Cat got your tongue? Maybe you've taken advantage of a prepper's 'hospitality' already—"

"No – I couldn't—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Poor Sam Bridges and his fucking aphenphosmphobia," Higgs snorts, "I get it. I didn't like being touched, either, once upon a time. Wanted to be left alone, fuck everyone else..." Sam doesn't want to listen to the man ramble, but he doesn't think he has a choice, either, "...had a regular prepper I visited. Older lady, liked reading. Invited me into her shelter one day… first time I ever met a woman, so I was a bit in awe. She taught me a _lot_ that night… like how different the hands of a female are, soft and gentle, unlike my 'daddy's'," venom drips from the word, "she didn't reek of piss, nor alcohol either – and _I_ was the one on top of her… it was nice, not having to look at the ceiling for once."

With the implications still sinking in, Higgs carries on with his reminiscing regardless of the porter's slow uptake, idly working the gel into Sam's legs, "it was a strange feeling, I tell ya', to have no fear. No fists across my face. No shouting. No weight crushing me to the cot – absolutely alien. Having her _under_ me made me so powerful, Sam. Made me think about things..."

"What things?" asks Sam, morbid curiosity taking over.

There's a pause when Higgs doesn't respond immediately. For a change, the separatist isn't smiling, a pensive look on his face replacing it. It takes a while, but, _finally_ , Higgs responds, "everything. My life. My power. My knowledge… in a few hours, everything I had ever believed in, had been taught, was shattered. Thought I knew it all… but I didn't know shit."

Sam can't think of anything to say to that, so he keeps silent. It doesn't matter; Higgs, clearly, can speak enough for the both of them as he continues on, "I see that same naivety in you, my dear delivery boy. There's an air of complexity surrounding you, but it's all a façade," the solemn mood Higgs had been in clears up, a glint appearing in his eyes, "this lone wolf act you put on is just so you don't get hurt again. You don't like to make connections, because you can't lose anything, if you don't have anything to lose..."

"...Shut up," Sam squirms uncomfortably, "you don't know anything."

"That's what you want to believe," Higgs stands back up, gel-covered hands cupping the porter's face, "but I've said it before. I've got a good connection to the other side… and the ghosts there tell me all I need to know – especially about _you_."

Before Sam can react, Higgs surges forward, smashing their lips together. Repulsed at being kissed by his enemy, the porter grabs a fistful of the other's hair and yanks him back, growling. He hasn't been kissed in ten years, _ten years_ , and in the blink of an eye, the terrorist has broken that streak.

Asshole.

" _Oh_ ," moans Higgs, a bit _too_ loudly, enough that Sam suspects that he's faking it, but the noise is revolting either way, "don't pull my hair so hard, or I'll get... _excited_."

Instantly, Sam releases the other man's hair, the overtly sexual tone to his voice making the porter's skin crawl.

The terrorist snickers, and kneels back down again, face shadowed underneath his hood as he peers up from under it, "don't pretend to be a prude, Samuel – didn't I just catch you drinking your own cum?"

Sam splutters, humiliation colouring his face, his ears, his chest – Higgs pats at his knee, as if in an attempt to be soothing, "it's okay. You don't need to do that again – not while I'm here," then, without warning, the separatist leans in, licking the tip of Sam's soft penis before taking the head into his mouth.

" _Oh_ —f-fuck!" Sam curses, flattening his palms against the glass door. The delicious wet sensation on his cock wins over any urge to push away the man; it's been too long since anyone has touched him _there_ , and it shows, his dick springing to life and hardening under Higgs' very talented tongue.

As soon as he's erect, Higgs is moving back off, gently taking the cock into his hands and examining the organ with a keen interest.

"D-don't look," shyly, Sam tries to cover his genitals, worrying at his lip. He doesn't want to look at Higgs' face; he expects there to be doubt in his eyes, a quirked eyebrow, a curl of his lip, just like when Lucy saw it—

"Why? It's beautiful," says Higgs, with such sincerity that Sam actually believes him for a minute, "thin hair… clean, cute and with a perfectly pink tip..." he strokes a thumb around the scar on the shaft, "no foreskin too… a rare find these days."

Frowning, Sam looks at his own scar on his penis. He'd never known how he'd gotten it – never asked about it – but assumed it had been normal… before now.

A question buds on Sam's lips – he's never seen another man's cock, doesn't know if his is the standard or not, and an overwhelming desire to know more makes the query tumble out, "don't you… have a scar?"

Higgs blinks, as if surprised by Sam's inquisitiveness, "I don't."

Silence. Sam processes the information, struggling to visualise his dick without the mark, and coming up short.

"...You seem confused. Have you never… seen another man naked?"

Glancing away and refusing to answer, Sam stubbornly turns his head, wishing that he hadn't said anything. Higgs isn't going to leave him alone for this, now, he fucking knows it. The man loves poking at all of Sam's weaknesses – and seconds later, the terrorist pipes up, "do you want to see _mine_?"

"Fuck no," Sam blurts out, but Higgs is already standing back up and unzipping his jumpsuit, reaching in and pulling out his own half-hard cock, putting it on display for the porter. Who stares. And stares.

It's big. Much bigger than his own, he realises with dismay. Thick and long, despite it not even being fully erect; mournfully, Sam peeks at his smaller penis, feeling a bit of his manliness die.

"Ugly, isn't it?" Higgs quizzes, stroking his cock lazily. It's somewhat enthralling, to see the skin slide over the head smoothly, wrinkling around the tip before retracting, showing off the redder glans.

"Yours is… big."

"I guess..." Higgs gets closer, his cock brushing against Sam's, "does it scare you?"

"...Why would it?" Sam's confusion increases by the minute. What an odd turn of events – ever since he had started heading west, Sam's grown to expect the unexpected. He couldn't have called this, though – having his enemy corner him in the shower, touching him, _sucking him_ , and now, grinding against him. Maybe it's a dream. Yeah.

A dream it is not, for the dread Sam feels is far too real when Higgs says, "Because it'll be _in_ you, soon."

_In_ him?

"But – _I'm a man_ ," protests Sam, his fear almost choking him.

"Yes, I can see that," Higgs responds dryly, snaking his arms around the porter's waist, "we can have sex, Sam."

There are hands on his ass. Squeezing. Pulling. Groping. Higgs' voice has gone strange. Husky, deeper than usual. Sam barely feels attached to reality any more – there's just Higgs. The continuing cascade of water. And...

...A finger, probing at his anus.

"I'll just have to enter _here_."

Sam acts before he thinks; he pushes the man back, curls his hand into a fist, and punches the terrorist straight across the face.

Stumbling, Higgs cups his reddening cheek, expression unreadable. He doesn't say anything for a time, simply tucking his cock away while Sam stands there with his knuckles throbbing, realising that what he just did wasn't going to end favourable for him.

Higgs starts shaking as soon as he zips up his jumpsuit. But it isn't tears, or from cold.

"Ha," the separatist chuckles, "ha… haha… hahahahaha!" his laughter grows louder, more maniacal, until he's doubling over from the intensity of it, slapping his knee and wiping away tears, smearing the make-up that Higgs wears. Dumbfounded, Sam does nothing – the ice is thin enough already, without him angering the lunatic any more than he has done already.

"You're so fuckin' _pure_ ," wheezes Higgs, "it makes me _sick_. You think you can keep that innocence forever? Open your eyes, Sam! There's monsters in this world – and I'm not talking about the BTs. "

" _You're_ the monster," Sam snaps, tired of everything – especially of the other man and his ceaseless tirades, "just do what you want. Get it over with," he's too drained to fight any longer. The more he resists, the more it's likely Higgs will flatten the city. And Lou… she's counting on him. Everyone is. What is a few moments of discomfort, compared to the safety of thousands? It's not like Higgs is going to let him go.

"I'm not a monster. I'm a liberator," Higgs corrects, grabbing the porter and spinning him around, "that mask you wear is going to come off – right here, right now."

Closing in his eyes, and swallowing hard, Sam braces himself for… whatever.

He doesn't expect Higgs to start massaging him again, however, the heel of his palms penetrating deep into the courier's shoulders. Methodically the terrorist works, humming good-naturedly as if Sam hadn't hit him moments ago.

"We got a little side-tracked," muses Higgs, "I was going to give you a pamper session, wasn't I? Gotta work out all those knots you've gotten from – ha – connecting all the Knots..." giggling at his own pun, he moves down to Sam's biceps, making appreciative little noises as he tends to the muscles.

"Such strong arms… you could break me in two if you wanted to," – Sam doubts that very much, but doesn't voice his scepticism – "too bad the only one getting broken today is _you_. Some other time, maybe..."

_Some other time._

God, Sam hopes not. Having Higgs do this to him just once is enough, the aphenphosmphobia that had gracefully decided to linger in the back of his mind coming to the front full-force the more the terrorist's touches linger, the sensation of a thousand tiny spiders crawling on his flesh and making him itch.

His skin burns. The gel isn't pleasant any more, just slimy, and another reminder where Higgs has molested him. Any arousal Sam had felt from the crazy man's mouth has died away, leaving only a feeling of apathy in its place.

This isn't what he wants. But he has no choice. Bridges can't help. No one can.

The only one he can depend on is himself. Like always.

"So _tense_ … this is _supposed_ to be relaxing," chides the terrorist, jabbing at a knot at the base of Sam's spine with pinpoint accuracy, "what's eating at ya', Sammy-boy?"

What _isn't_ eating at him is the better question. Sam keeps that snappy comment to himself, however, and asks a more burning one – "why do you want to have sex with me?"

He isn't a beautiful man, Sam recognises that. Scruffy beard, unkempt hair and a body mottled with the marks from repatriation; even if he's not interested in other people, Sam can see his attractiveness is on the lower end of the spectrum, compared to the likes of Lockne, Fragile, even Heartman – fuck, if it weren't for his tattoos, Higgs himself would be roguishly handsome.

"Who wouldn't?" says Higgs, "you're irresistible. The moment I laid my eyes on you, the desire to jump on right then and there was overwhelming… since then, I've dreamt of it, of pushing that face of yours into the dirt and having my wicked, nasty way with you. Bet I'm not alone there..."

"I bet you are," Sam huffs, mildly disturbed, yet also not really surprised by Higgs' admission of wanting to rape him; the man's mad, insane, and a creep to boot.

"Nuh-uh. Speaking from experience, Sam… an isolated shelter, deep underground and locked from the inside is the perfect place to be pinned down and used. And sure," Higgs reaches around and taps the cuffs on Sam's wrist, "you might be hooked up to Bridges at all time… but in this lawless world, what are they going to do? Remove the perpetrator from the UCA?" he clicks his tongue, "nah. Between you and the precious Chiral Network, they'd throw you under the bus without a second thought. You're just their errand boy. You're _her_ errand boy, too."

"...You talk too much."

" _You_ don't talk enough."

"Ever thought that I just don't want to talk to _you_?"

"Savage," Higgs drawls, pushing painfully into a muscle on Sam's back in retaliation, "with cool, witty comebacks like that, I'm _sure_ the MULEs are shaking in their boots when you come by."

"Wasn't trying to be funny," Sam winces at the pressure on his back, the terrorist's thumb drilling down until it feels like he's touching bone, "or cool—"

Sam's voice dies when Higgs' hands are back on the move; down and down they go until they grab two meaty handfuls of his rear, groping at the flesh and giving it a cheeky little pinch.

"What an _ass_ ," praises Higgs appreciatively, "toned yet soft… got a nice bounce to it too. I could just eat it..."

Higgs stops pawing at him, murmuring something under his breath that Sam doesn't catch. A minute passes without the other man doing anything, the gel completely rinsing off of Sam's body and swirling into the drain in the meantime.

"We're done here," the terrorist declares, and Sam feels the water stop, replaced by the heated fans quickly drying their bodies.

"Done ' _here_ '?" Sam repeats.

"If we stay in the shower any longer, we're going to end up like Fragile," jokes Higgs, and Sam throws a glare over his shoulder at the cruel jest, "oooh, what a scary look, Sam. You into her or something? Gonna warn ya', she's not easy to please...if you know what I mean."

Feeling like he's heard something he shouldn't have, Sam shoves the image of Higgs and Fragile copulating out of his mind, hoping that he's jumping to conclusions. Higgs doesn't expand on what he's said, either, checking his clothes instead.

"Mhmm. Dry, finally. Guess it's time for us to leave—"

"—No," Sam almost begs, realising that Higgs has no intentions of continuing their liaison in the shower, "do it here."

"Shower sex? Kinky," the terrorist purrs, "we can do that _later_ maybe – after I make a mess out of you."

"But… the cameras..."

"Oh, _Sam_ ," Higgs spins him around, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug, "I _want_ Bridges to see us making love."

"No—" making love? What planet is the psychopath living on?

" _Yes_. And don't think about resisting – or else," Higgs warns, then the shower doors hiss open.

Trapped in the terrorist's embrace, Sam concedes defeat, and allows himself to be pushed backwards, nearly stumbling over the step of the shower. Out of fear of tumbling over, he clings onto Higgs' waist, jumpsuit bunching underneath his fingertips as they make their way into the centre of the room.

"Kiss me," mutters Higgs, pushing down his hood, "c'mon."

With a huge amount of reluctance, Sam angles his head, and presses a dry kiss to the enemy's lips. It tastes of barely anything, only a mild sour sweetness Sam recognises as alcohol; the flavour becomes more pungent, more intense, as Higgs pulls at his hair hard enough that it causes the porter to yelp, the barest parting of his lips enough for the separatist to shove his tongue into Sam's mouth.

A wet kiss – too much tongue, too sloppy, Sam thinks, as saliva drips down the corner of his lips. The muscle in his mouth barely allows him to breathe; so, he responds back, pushing his own tongue against Higgs' in an attempt to keep him at bay. The action makes the man's eyes light up, his mouth quirking into a smile.

The battle of dominance continues as they make their way towards the bed, Higgs touching him in places that Sam had thought that he'd never be touched again: his neck, chest, behind his ears – when they reach the bed, Higgs is the one to fall onto it, sprawled on his back as his legs dangle over the side. Still entangled in the terrorist's arms, Sam himself is pulled on top, knees on either side of the man and straddling his lap while something… _hard_ pokes at his backside.

"Fuck," Higgs groans as he pulls away, "didn't expect you to be so enthusiastic… _darlin'_."

" _Never_ call me that again," pants Sam, head fuzzy and ears buzzing. Such an intense kiss has his adrenaline spiking, and he isn't given much of a rest before Higgs is grabbing the back of his neck, embracing him once again.

Despite being on top, the other man is clearly the one in control. His hard cock grinds against the crack of the porter's ass, hands no longer on his neck, but on his rear, pulling the cheeks apart. Knowing that such an intimate area is on view, visible to everyone who might be watching, has Sam reddening in a matter of milliseconds as embarrassment floods through him.

Sam breaks the kiss, mumbling, "turn off the lights."

"Nope, I want to be able to see you," Higgs refuses, a finger creeping towards the sensitive rim of Sam's anus. Tensing, the courier grunts as the tip pokes at his hole, dry, "I want _them_ to see you, too."

He doesn't get a second say, as Higgs is attacking his mouth again, the pad of his fingertip rubbing against Sam's asshole whenever his mouth turns slack and unresponsive. Nothing about it feels good; the kiss is messy, and the teasing of his ass is bordering on painful, as the friction of Higgs' finger is almost like sandpaper.

After some more fondling, the terrorist appears to finally notice his discomfort, "hurts, doesn't it?"

"N-not really," Sam grinds out, his mouth feeling like it's full of dirt from such a barefaced lie.

"Oh, is that so?" the finger enters deeper, and Sam trembles as the burn gets worse. He's walked over razor-sharp rocks barefoot, marched on and on until he's on the verge of collapsing, but this, _this_ hurts on a whole different level, somehow.

When it gets too much and sweat pools on his brow, Sam groans, "st—stop, _shit_ , that—"

"You dirty little liar. I should just enter you now for being a bad boy; blood makes for a decent substitute—"

"No!" Sam shakes his head frantically – Higgs' dick would split him in fucking two. And he really, really doesn't want to have to seek medical attention after everything is done – no way in hell is he letting anyone else touch him _there_ again.

"Say it hurts, then I'll make sure it doesn't, okay?"

"...It hurts."

"Good, good, I like an honest man," Higgs removes the offending appendage from the porter, "I'll make that pain go away for you..." slipping Sam off his lap, Higgs swings his legs onto the mattress and lies flat, motioning to his face, "get up here."

"Huh?"

"Sit _here_ ," Higgs points to his face again, "but not facing me."

"On – _your face_?" Sam asks, incredulously, unsure what the fuck the other man is planning.

" _Yes_."

"N—" Sam begins, but Higgs frowns, eyes turning hard, "—...fine."

Oh Jesus. The porter's legs shake as he shuffles up the surprisingly resilient bed, cupping his sac and cock in his hand as he clambers over the terrorist's head, hovering over the man's face. Slowly lowering his hips and stopping the moment he feels warm breaths against his hole, Sam nibbles his lip, aware that Higgs can see _everything_.

" _Damn_ ," whistles Higgs, thumbs parting the courier's cheeks, "it's so pink..." Sam jolts, gripping the mattress to keep his balance as something wet drags across his asshole, realising quickly that it's a _tongue_.

"D-don't," Sam whimpers, "it's dirty—"

Higgs ignores him and continues to lap at the wrinkled, delicate skin, teasing the rim with the tip with fast flicks of his tongue. The sensation is plain weird – Sam isn't sure if it's pleasurable or not; it is mostly ticklish, really—

—Then the muscle dives _deep_ into his asshole, and Sam moans the loudest he has ever done in his goddamn life, the warm, slick organ stretching out the tight skin and probing against the twitching walls. On instinct, Sam drops his hips and rolls them, fucking himself on the tongue delving in and out of him. He's probably suffocating the terrorist; but considering the sizable erection tenting his jumpsuit, Sam presumes that the man doesn't care, and is, for some reason, _enjoying_ eating ass, a small damp patch on his clothes getting bigger by the minute.

Sam's brain turns to mush. The mixture of Higgs' textured tongue, the scrape of his beard, and the barest hint of his teeth has the porter shaking and gasping, too much stimulation all at once for him to process properly, or coherently. Not being touched for so long has left his body overly receptive, and as Higgs' lips begin to suck, shamefully, Sam feels himself becoming aroused, cock hardening rapidly.

Fighting every urge to touch himself, the courier attempts to refocus – he's moaning so loudly, so unabashedly, that even Sam's surprised that the noises are coming from out of _his_ own mouth. Nobody better be watching this, because he's pretty sure he'd never be able to face them ever again out of pure, crippling, embarrassment. Although – Sam's not the only one making sounds, he realises, Higgs' own muffled noises of what appears to be both relish and absolute ecstasy reaching his ears. Even without the man's vocalisations, Sam can tell how much he's aroused, Higgs' hips thrusting into the air minutely as if trying to seek out friction.

"Please," Higgs says coarsely, popping his mouth off of the porter's hole, "undo my zip, Sam. It fuckin' hurts."

Grunting while leaning forward, Sam rests his elbows on the mattress as he undoes the terrorist's zipper, finding that the man's pants are also in the way. For some reason, he had expected Higgs to be completely naked under his jumpsuit… even though that would be illogical, given Timefall, and how the material of the overalls is scratchy and unpleasant on the skin. Sam does, however, find that the separatist is going commando as he slides down the pants, erection springing free and bumping against his lips as it's released from its prison.

Blinking in surprise and staring at the dick centimetres from his face, the courier gulps – it's fucking _huge_. He's seen it before, but now it's even closer, and fully erect; the foreskin that once covered the head is now pulled back, the glans rosy and coated in… not pre-cum, but actual cum, globs of pearly white liquid oozing down the shaft.

"You came already?" Sam can't keep the ridicule out of his voice – he thought _he_ was quick… but at least he's never come without being touched.

At the remark, a palm smacks across his rear, "are you making fun of _me,_ Sam?"

"N-no."

"Yes you are," Higgs insists, slapping his backside again, "I'll remember your cheekiness later..."

Ominous.

He doesn't get a chance to dwell on it, as Higgs' tongue is back on his hole, the muscle wriggling and writhing inside of him; and relinquishing himself to the pleasure, Sam shuts his eyes, reaching underneath himself to grab at his straining cock.

Oh _god_. His cock is so fucking hard, throbbing in his grip and dribbling far too much pre-cum – giving himself a few strokes, Sam huffs in annoyance when Higgs stops rimming him, removing his tongue and instead exhaling heavily against the porter's asshole, breaths cool against the heated skin.

It's too much. And the intensity only increases, when Higgs licks a broad swipe behind his balls, slowly dragging the organ up past the porter's taint and plunging it in and out of his hole – Sam pumps his cock once, twice, and then he's coming, eyes snapping open as his body shakes from his orgasm, palm wet and sticky as he coats it with his release.

"Came already?" Higgs mocks, still continuing to play with Sam's hole. On a high, the courier only manages a half-grunt, half-whine, lifting his trembling, weak hips away from the terrorist's mouth, finding that the licking is becoming a bit uncomfortable. Whether it's a physical, or mental discomfort, Sam doesn't know; all he _does_ know is that his anus feels like a stretched out, soft, twitching mess, his sphincter contracting around nothing as he rolls off of the separatist.

Facing the ceiling, Sam looks at the cum on his hand, thinking.

It felt good. He had come.

From the actions of America's number one enemy.

He had betrayed Bridges. The UCA. Lucy—

No. He is doing this to _protect_ civilians—

"Thinking about eating it again?"

"What...? No," Sam wipes his hand on the terrorist's overalls, leaving a blotch on them. Higgs sits up, leaning on his elbows, and quirks a hairless eyebrow at the stain.

"Thanks. I'll treasure it," says Higgs, somewhat sarcastically, "something to remember you by while we're apart..."

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Sam slings his arm over his eyes, blocking out the bright lights. There's a lot of things he's feeling… yet he can't really summon the energy to think about them, to process them – guilt is the only discernible emotion he can recognise, but that has always been a constant undercurrent in his day-to-day life. He can't remember a time where he _hadn't_ woken up with thoughts of what-ifs.

"Who were you jerking off to earlier?"

Unexpected question – although Sam can't help but wonder why Higgs hasn't asked it sooner, given how much he likes to invade his privacy. Sam thinks about lying, that he wasn't jerking off to anyone; but what's the point? The other man can read him like an open book.

"I don't know," it isn't a complete lie, really – he has no idea _who_ the soldier is, after all.

"You don't know? I'm disappointed… I was hoping you'd say me."

"Dream on," Sam's voice wavers a little; he doesn't need the terrorist to know just how much he pervades his mind, even his fantasies. It'll only stroke his massive, overinflated ego further.

"Ain't got no dreams… only nightmares," Higgs exhales, an uncharacteristic weariness creeping into his eyes for a fleeting moment when Sam decides to look, "anyway. Describe the person, if you don't know them."

"...Why?"

"Just entertain my curiosity, Samuel."

"...Tall. Sharp cheekbones," Sam notes with some apprehension that Higgs has started to masturbate next to him, the rhythmic sounds of skin on skin, "manly. And, uh. Wore an army uniform—"

"Hold up," Higgs stops him, " _army_ uniform?"

"Yes."

"...Where have you seen this man?"

"Supercell. Sucked me up. Ended up in a warzone," says Sam curtly, not embellishing the details, "thought it was _your_ doing..."

"Maybe it is," the terrorist smirks, but there's a crease between his tattooed eyebrows, "or maybe it isn't."

A moment of quietness stretches out, only broken by the sounds of Higgs touching himself. With nothing else better to do, Sam watches, noting how differently the man handles himself. Rougher, more twisting of the wrist, strokes longer, deeper – after some time, the porter realises that Higgs is being more deliberate with his actions, watching him, well, watch _him_ jerking off.

"Wanna touch it?"

No.

Hell no.

"...okay."

Shit. That isn't what he meant to say.

Higgs nods, and removes his hands from his cock as Sam rolls onto his side. Propping himself up on an elbow, he takes a good look at the organ not far from his face. Comparing it to his own cock is like night and day; Higgs has more hair than him, more veins jutting out on the shaft – even his balls are bigger, more wrinkled. Sam's never been sure what to make of his own penis – especially not after a fierce row with Lucy had ended up with her mocking his size, and even though she had apologised, she hadn't taken the comment back.

Is _this_ a normal man's penis? Is he… abnormal? Thinking hard, Sam reaches out his finger and places it on the tip. The urge to pull back is overwhelming; but he fights it – from the way Higgs is eyeing him up, expectantly, it seems like he isn't going to get out of it anyway.

The tip is wet. Sticky. Warm. That's familiar – it's when Sam drags his finger down, until he reaches the patch of skin that he doesn't have, that things become… interesting. At the first graze of his fingertip, Higgs sucks in a breath, cock twitching underneath his touches.

"Little tease," Higgs hisses, sounding somewhat breathless. Interpreting the comment to mean that he should hurry up, Sam takes his hand off of the man's cock, spits in it, and this time, wraps his fist around it, gently working his hand down to the base. The glide is smoother, softer, due to the foreskin – or maybe from the cum smeared on Higgs' dick already – so that Sam thinks he perhaps didn't need the spit as lube at all. Whatever; almost mechanically the porter jerks off the terrorist, face blank as the initial curiosity he had felt wanes and is instead replaced by clear-headedness.

He's helping his enemy masturbate. His hand is on Higgs, half-willingly; he's having _sex_ with a man he knows nothing about, a terrorist, a separatist, a _murderer_ —

Sam flinches when Higgs' hand cups his own, guiding him, "looks like you need some help," he says, manipulating the porter's fist, more roughly, harder than Sam had been doing it. Sandwiched between the man's cock and his hand has the prickling sensation underneath the courier's skin flaring up violently, and on reflex, he wriggles out of the terrorist's grasp, a red patch forming where he had been touched.

"That phobia of yours is an inconvenience," Higgs sighs in disappointment, "guess if you aren't going to jerk me off, you can just suck it instead..."

_That_ thing? In his mouth? Sam doesn't know the first about sucking another man's dick – and if Higgs is expecting him to swallow down his cock to the root like he had done to _him_ earlier, then that is very, very unlikely. The thought of him choking has Sam shaking his head vigorously, squeamish.

"Jeez, I didn't expect you to be such a pillow princess," Sam doesn't know what that means, but the manner in which the way the terrorist says it makes it sound derogatory, "hmph. Guess we should just get on with the main course then, if you're not into the appetiser..."

He's not naïve enough not to understand the implications there – after foreplay comes… sex. Full-blown intercourse. Higgs' cock. _Inside_ of him.

The temptation to get things over and done with quickly is thrown to the wind at the images running through his mind, and in desperation, Sam bargains, "no – don't, not yet."

"Oh? Changed your mind?"

"I'll… lick you," Sam hastens to explain further, "like you did for me," surely licking an ass is easier than sucking a dick. At least, that's what he tells himself. It's only delaying the inevitable, but maybe by some stroke of luck, something, or someone, will save him.

Abruptly, Higgs gets off the bed and stands up without a word. Sam wonders if somehow he's fucked up, considering the silence from the other man – wouldn't be the first time that he's done or said something inappropriate or strange during sex. He remembers the time he had asked to be on top, or for the lights to be turned on once, and Lucy hadn't spoken to him for a solid _week_.

"Sorry," Sam apologises, praying that he hasn't pissed off Higgs so much that he'll just nuke the city without warning, "I'll suck—"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," Higgs begins to strip, his back turned, "what _are_ you apologising for?"

"I said something wrong."

"...You did?"

"Didn't I?"

The sound of fabric rustling and falling to the floor seems to echo as Higgs undresses. It's a strained sort of silence that descends over them – Sam isn't really sure why, though.

"...Whatever concept of sex you have Sam, forget about it. If there's anything I've learned over the years, it's that fucking is a two-way sort of deal," Higgs eventually says, stepping out of his clothes, "forcing you to do what I want doesn't seem fun, because I know I don't have to. The more repressed, and sheltered a man is, the more his curiosity about things grows..."

With Higgs' bare back on view, Sam eyes him up – more tattoos, a larger version of the icon on his cloak inked onto his back, along with various other Egyptian symbols on his arms. There's even a tattoo on his ankle, yet that isn't the strangest thing.

The oddest thing is a faded outline of a handprint, just over his heart and partially hidden in the sparse fuzz covering the other man's chest.

"You're a repatriate?"

"Yup. I was blessed too," Higgs looks at him, "or cursed, depending on your take."

Fighting the terrorist suddenly seems a whole lot more pointless. Looking more closely, there aren't many handprints – either Higgs is good at avoiding death, or isn't as reckless as Sam. It's the first time the porter has come across another repatriate – everyone has always spoken like there were more running around in the world, yet also treat him like he is special, unique.

"Like what you see?" sniggers the separatist, climbing back onto the bed. Realising how intensely he had been staring, Sam breaks away his gaze. Higgs is just another man, but his body is different. More lean, yet his abs and muscles are more defined, more sculpted. Hairier, too, on his arms, legs, even with a trail starting from his navel down to his groin.

As if he enjoys the porter's ogling, Higgs lounges on the bed, resting back on his elbows, but this time spreading his legs too and giving Sam a clearer view of his cock. He pats at the space between his legs, beckoning the porter to come closer. Obediently, Sam moves into the spot, on his knees, awaiting the next order, hesitant to make the first move. Leaning back further, Higgs widens his legs even more, reaching down to scissor open his asshole with his fingers.

"C'mon, dig in."

No getting out of it, then.

Steeling himself, Sam shuffles forward, putting his head between the man's legs and inching closer towards his goal. Fuck – he's really doing this. His tongue. In a man's ass.

His heart races as he's centimetres away from the terrorist's hole; it's a little hairy down here, too, and as Sam closes in – he realises it's wet, a white, thick liquid dripping out of his anus as Higgs' fingers stretch the skin.

It's cum. There's no mistaking it.

"Uh," Sam pauses, unsure how to bring it up. Struggling, he peers up to the terrorist – and is racked with chills when he does, a twisted expression of sick delight and amusement on his features as Higgs stares back.

"Oops," he says, "I forgot to mention that I _might've_ blown off some steam with one of my boys before coming here."

Bastard. The absolute _bastard_ hadn't forgotten at all, Sam knows, he can see it from the mischievous glint in the other man's eyes – the motherfucker. Of course he was quick enough to jump out of his clothes and take up Sam's bargain. Because having the porter eat the cum of a man he has never met before out of his ass is the sort of sadistic thing the separatist would do for sheer entertainment.

"Fuck you," Sam spits, angry that for a brief moment, he had thought that the terrorist had been acting reasonably for once.

"Not today, Sam – some other time, maybe. Now get to it."

Regretting every ounce of his stupid decision, Sam darts out his tongue and closes his eyes, hoping that if he can't _see_ the semen, then he won't know it's there. Although, as the taste of bitter saltiness explodes on his taste buds, he realises that it's a futile attempt of deluding himself; Higgs had well and truly played him.

The sound of the man moaning makes the porter's stomach lurch – it's too loud, too exaggerated, a hundred times more unpleasant due to heightened senses from having his eyes closed. The more Sam licks, the worse it gets, until he has to choose between two evils – to see what he's eating, or to hear Higgs more clearly.

It's an easy choice, as the other man groans out, "that's it – _ah_ , shit, you're better with your tongue than your hands, Sammy-boy—"

Irritated by Higgs' insistent chatter, Sam opens his eyes and glares at him, "shut up."

"What? I'm enjoying myself," Higgs looks flushed and sweaty, cock flexing from what Sam can only assume is arousal, " _you_ need to shut up and continue," the other man orders, before grabbing a fistful of the courier's hair and pushing his face closer against his twitching asshole, balls and taint rubbing against Sam's cheek as his nose is buried in the crack. A musky aroma fills his nostrils as he breathes in, sweaty with a tinge of something indescribably lewd – it isn't a woman's smell. Different. There's something about it that makes his brain turn foggy, almost drunk in a way.

Intoxicated, Sam continues to lick, and lick, against the hole, the smell overflowing into his lungs whenever he breathes. Higgs' hips grind down on Sam's tongue, appearing impatient, and taking the hint, he pushes the muscle in, cringing as a jelly-like consistency coats his tongue as he works it in.

"Hah," Higgs puffs, stroking the porter's hair, " _the_ legendary Sam is licking _my_ ass… his _enemy's_ ass… and sucking out the cum of some guy I didn't even know the name of. How's it feel, knowing that _they're_ probably watching this?"

Goddamn humiliating, that's how it feels. But Sam doesn't give him the satisfaction of an answer, and instead, just throws another filthy glare at him, wriggling his tongue faster, assuming that the quicker he is, the sooner Higgs will come – or get bored, whichever comes first.

Higgs doesn't say anything about his non-verbal reply, taking to stroking his cock as Sam swallows down sperm for the second time that day. Eating out the terrorist isn't _as_ bad as he had expected – it doesn't really taste of much, other than skin (and, of course, semen) with a tang of salt, presumably from sweat. The texture is the most off-putting part; the creases of Higgs' anus and the hair surrounding it, along with the smooth walls inside the hole combined with the sticky cum dribbling out has Sam repressing a gag or two...although, he assures himself that if he had been sucking the man's cock instead, he'd be gagging a whole lot more.

After a few minutes of exploring Higgs' hole with his tongue, the taste of the cum is almost non-existent – he must have swallowed it all, Sam realises, feeling slightly sick, then relieved as Higgs pulls him away – only for it to be replaced with fear as he announces, "you did good – but I think we've been stalling for too long, and I don't wanna cum again unless it's in ya'. So we better get to the main course, before it gets cold, yes?"

Sam sits frozen, saliva around his lips, as Higgs reaches for the tube of gel sitting on the table that he hadn't even known was there, inches away from the terrorist's darkened BB pod. Everything seems to slow down as the cap is unscrewed, and then squeezed, a stream of thick, clear gel coating Higgs' fingers.

"Come up here and lie by me, Sam. I'll prep you, 'cause I doubt you know how to."

Limbs heavy, Sam crawls up the bed and lies on his back beside the terrorist, who rolls onto his side, puts the tube onto the figurine shelf, and then rests his head on a fist.

"Comfortable?" Higgs asks, slicking the gel between his fingers. Giving a little nod, Sam braces himself, expecting his current comfort to disappear very soon; he's not sure what is going to happen, but he's sure he's going to hate it—

A finger traces around his sphincter, cool and slick, and immediately, Sam seizes up, heart rate rapidly increasing as he automatically goes into panic mode.

His chest tightens. His mouth goes dry; sweat trickles down his neck as his phobia kicks in, as if trying to pull him back to his senses.

No. He can't do this. He can't have sex with his enemy. Amelie, Bridget, Bridges – they'd be disappointed, to see him succumb so easily. There must be something he can do – someone will save him, Higgs doesn't _really_ want to fuck him—

The finger slides in, sinking in all the way, and Sam whimpers. It isn't painful, but it isn't pleasurable, either. It's odd. Strange. Things shouldn't go _in_. Yet it is, worming its way up to the knuckle and bottoming out.

"Calm down, you're just making it harder for yourself," Higgs states, slowly thrusting his finger in and out of the porter's hole, "breathe in… and then breathe out – yeah, like that, you can do it," Sam follows his directions, taking a big gulp of air and then exhaling in one long exhale, the tightness in his chest lessening the more he repeats the motion.

"Better?"

"Feels like shit," grumbles Sam, grunting when a second finger joins the first. He's starting to experience the stretch, the burn; his groans only get louder when Higgs' fingers widen out, spreading out his asshole.

Just as he's about to grab Higgs' wrist to make him stop, he stiffens up completely, the man's appendages grazing against something inside of him. It's a peculiar sort of pressure – kind of similar to the sensation of needing to pee.

"Wait, I gotta piss—"

"No you don't," Higgs pushes in a third finger, all three of his digits prodding at the unusual spot, "it's normal, when your prostate is being poked at. So relax, let loose… and enjoy it."

Sam isn't sure he can, but he tries, regardless, chest heaving as Higgs' fingers thrust faster and more vigorously. The urge to urinate doesn't go away in the slightest, as his clenched muscles loosen up – but there _is_ something else Sam can feel, something that feels… _good_. So good, that drops of pre-cum are splattering from his barely half-hard cock, pelvis moving in tandem with Higgs' hand, forcing the fingers inside of him deeper. He's acting disgracefully, lewdly, yet as Sam's back arches off the bed after a strong jab at _that_ spot, he can only think of one thing: _he doesn't want to stop._

"Holy shit," Higgs sounds pleased, "you're loving this, aren't ya', my sweet Sammy?"

The porter shakes his head in response, but the moans that tumble out his of his mouth give away his lies – he's never felt like _this_ before; never has pleasure swallowed up his body entirely, starting from the inside and making its way to the surface of his skin, nerves tingling every time Higgs thrusts his fingers into him.

Something's coming. It's not a normal orgasm – a regular orgasm doesn't send shockwaves rippling through his whole body, or have his toes curling as it approaches. Whatever is coming, it is so intense that Sam is actually _afraid_ , lips trembling as he hurtles towards an unfamiliar edge.

Just as he teeters on the brink, Higgs' fingers slip out of him, his hole now empty, stretched and wet from lubrication, with the gel coating his inner thighs, too.

"Fuck!" Sam swears, hating how broken and weak his voice sounds, yet hating how empty he feels even more. As he's about to complain, Higgs rolls him onto his side so he's lying flush against the terrorist's chest, the warmth of the man radiating through him straight to his core, and Sam melts as Higgs' arms wrap around him, pulling him close.

Sharing heat. Sharing space. Sharing a moment… things that Sam hasn't done for a long, long time. Even if they're things he's doing with his enemy, his body cares little, starved of human contact yet desiring it all the same. He's so relaxed, basking in the heat of the other man, that he doesn't even react when Higgs' hard cock nestles between his ass cheeks, skating across his hole. The terrorist's hips move jerkily, but he misses the mark – then again, sliding between the porter's legs. After an impatient puff of air on the back of his neck, Sam senses something pressed against his anus on the third thrust.

Higgs has found his mark, it seems. The tip pokes at the courier's hole, but it doesn't go in. Not at first, anyway – after some failures, of Higgs attempting to push into him, yet still being too tight to slip in, Sam is about to suggest giving up...

...then the head, suddenly, pops past the rim, the ridged edge catching on his sphincter as it slides into him. It is pure pressure, widening the porter inch by inch in a torturously slow fashion as Higgs sinks him down. Sam can't say it hurts – but it's uncomfortable, and a strain on his body that makes his frame rack with shivers as he accommodates the other man.

"You okay?" asks Higgs, pausing his movements. He sounds breathless and rough, voice like gravel in Sam's ears.

Somewhat taken aback by the man's concern, Sam nods. His hole feels so full, stuffed to the brim – surely there's no more to come, he's not sure he _could_ take any more.

"Good… only a bit left to go."

Sam nearly weeps, and a pained moan tumbles from out of his mouth as Higgs lowers him down even further. But finally they've reached their goal; with his ass flush against Higgs' pelvis, Sam exhales shakily. Fuck – the other man is so big, that he swears he can feel the dull throb of the terrorist's cock from just underneath his navel.

"Wasn't so hard now, was it?" Higgs pats at his hip, "you took it all like a champ. I expected a few tears, at the very least… there usually is."

He rocks his hips, and it's like someone is punching the porter in the guts when the cock inside of him strikes against his inner walls. Air, he needs air, but Sam has forgotten how to breathe as Higgs starts to move, short, quick jabs that stab over and over at his deepest parts. Fuck, _fuck_ , the sensation of something slipping out of him, then sliding back _in_ , is so strange that he clenches up, causing the separatist to curse in his ear.

"Shit, Sam – loosen up, my dick's gonna fall off otherwise."

"I – I can't," Sam stutters as Higgs grinds into him, pubic hair scratching against his ass, "I don't like this."

"You don't like it, 'cause you can't let go," says Higgs, sliding his hand behind Sam's knee and hoisting it up. His other arm he uses as a pillow for the courier, resting it behind his neck and cupping his cheek, pulling him in for a quick kiss (Sam tries not to think where the terrorist's mouth has been), "just let it all go… don't think. You get too lost in that head of yours. Have _fun_ , for once. It won't kill ya'."

He's doubtful that _this_ will ever feel good, as Higgs slowly, very slowly, pulls nearly all the way out, with only the head still inside.

And as carefully as he had pulled out, the terrorist is just as painstakingly deliberate when he re-enters, the pace so languid, that Sam gets frustrated – Higgs might have all day to fuck, but _he_ doesn't.

"Hurry the fuck up," Sam berates, "ain't got all day."

"You fucker, you make it sound like _I_ do. Which I don't. I'm a busy guy, too, you know?"

Yet he has enough time to spare to stalk him, Sam thinks, but neglects to say aloud.

Another lazy thrust has Sam growling in displeasure, growing more and more irritated by the minute. There's no doubt in his mind that Higgs is doing it on purpose, deliberately going at a snail's pace to piss him off – annoyed, the porter tries rocking his own hips backwards, but the movement lacks grace, lacks skill, and Higgs chuckles at his amateurish attempt when his cock slips out completely due to Sam's actions.

"You're supposed to take the whole thing, not just the tip," Higgs says, lining himself back up, "if you wanted to be fucked hard, you could've just said, Sam."

"I don't—" Sam starts, then freezes, as Higgs' cock sinks into him completely in a single, snappy motion, stabbing at his insides at an angle that has tears welling up in his eyes. They teeter on the brink, then spill, a saline taste on his palate as they roll down his cheek and fall into his mouth.

Higgs giggles at his reaction, moving so he can lap up the liquid that continues to drip, tongue dragging across the porter's sweaty cheek. Sam allows him to – he can't comprehend disgust, when most of his senses are honing in on what is going on below his waist. The sticky sounds of lubrication, the smell of sweat and something indescribably lewd, the scent so strong that Sam can _taste_ it. But, oh fuck, every single one of those things pales in comparison to the _feel_ of what is happening. His erection, which had softened when Higgs had taken his sweet time to penetrate him, is becoming roused from its slumber, swelling up rapidly when the terrorist keeps hitting the spot that had almost made him lose his mind earlier.

But the cock inside of him is bigger, hotter, harder than the fingers that had been touching it earlier, and as Sam realises an orgasm is building up, far too quickly, he focuses the remaining sense he has on something that he knows will quell the urge to come immediately; the empty hole where the BB pod should be.

At once, it sobers him up. Higgs is fucking him, blackmailing him. Lou – she needs him, and here he is, rolling around in bed with the motherfucker who had nuked cities, disfigured Fragile, and is hell-bent on destroying everything Amelie and Bridget had worked for.

It's almost like the terrorist is telepathic, because he says, "your BB will be fine, you soft-hearted fool," Higgs clicks his tongue, "getting attached to what most consider a piece of equipment… what a gentle soul you have," his voice dips low, barely even a whisper, "despite how much you love it, Sam, it can't replace what's been lost already."

Sam's heart stings at the comment. Lou isn't a substitute – she never has been, and never _will_ be. The green-eyed bundle of personality has her own identity, far removed from the one he had imagined his own child would have. She's a second chance. His salvation.

"Lou's not a replacement," Sam insists, also whispering. He doesn't want Bridges to hear this – although, if Higgs knows about his personal life, _and_ about Lou needing treatment, then surely they can find out about his past, too.

"Not a replacement, he says… while giving it the same name," Higgs sneers. His grip on his leg is starting to hurt. Any sort of kindness the man had been showing grows cold, as he thrusts faster, harder, scraping his cock against the porter's prostate again and again, until the front Sam had put up begins to break back down again.

Asshole. Despite Sam's lack of enjoyment in the proceedings, Higgs continues to fuck him, hands that were once gentle are now bruisingly hard, nails digging into his skin. This is better. When the terrorist is being… gentle, it confuses him. This is what he expects, from a man that he is ambivalent of. He's a psycho, a creep, yet if his journal entries and oversharing are to be believed… he's kind of pitiful, in a way.

"You are—" Higgs pants, "—so nauseatingly _good_ and _pure._ I've seen you, holding it, rocking it, caring for it – only _you_ would do that..."

"A-aren't you… attached to yours?" Sam stumbles on his words when Higgs stops abruptly.

"In a way someone might get attached to an inanimate object..." he pulls out, grabbing Sam on the shoulder and rolling him onto his back, "like this quipu," Higgs jingles the golden metal with his finger as he clambers between the porter's legs, "Amelie is mighty fond of this… I can feel the warmth of the emotions radiating from it against my chest."

Sam darts out a hand, attempting to snatch the necklace away – it doesn't belong on Higgs. It looks odd, and it's insulting. He had gifted it to Amelie, poured his affections into the quipu so he could take it to her on the beach – Higgs wearing it defiles the object. Those knots, the strands, are meaningless to _him_.

"Don't think so," Higgs slaps away his grabbing hands, "it's mine now. Just get her a new one."

"Get your own," grunts Sam.

"But I want _this_ one. The one you poured your love into," Higgs' hands slides behind Sam's knees, pulling them back to his shoulders, "the emotions might not be directed at _me_ , but they're still there."

"That's stealing."

"That kind of logic is high and mighty of you, considering..." Higgs trails off, sinking his cock back into the porter. Sam groans loudly; the angle and position are much deeper, the curve of the terrorist's penis brushing against his prostate.

"...Considering what?" Sam wishes Higgs would stop speaking in riddles, the pretentious prick. _And_ because the more he speaks, the more he drags things out. Maybe it's on purpose. Maybe? _Definitely_.

"Well… don't you think that you've, technically, stole your BB, Sam?" he doesn't get what Higgs is getting at, but the separatist clarifies, "that BB isn't yours. It was taken from the womb of a mother who will never be able to hold her child… and there's probably a father who wants nothing more than to see it again. The affection it shows you… was never meant for you."

He knows that. Sam's never wanted to acknowledge it, and the forbidden words being spoken aloud hurts him straight to his very core. For years he had been frozen in time, stuck in the past, but Lou's presence by his side had changed that, she had thawed him out and given him a reason to wake up in the mornings.

"Fuck you," Sam tries to spit out the words with venom, but his voice lacks the ferocity he so desires. It comes out weak, and his eyes are wet and misty. He's so fond of her. Why can't people leave them alone? Why did she have to be stuck in that pod, where he can only look and not touch? It isn't fair. It's like life itself is teasing him.

"You poor thing," Higgs says, rocking his hips despite Sam going half-soft during their talk, "you just want what so many people take for granted… a family," he leans forward, swiping up a tear from the corner of Sam's eye with his tongue, "I can give what you want, Sam."

"No you can't," Sam turns his head away, cheek rubbing against the mattress in time with Higgs' movements, which are getting faster, more powerful – he's starting to slide up the bed from the momentum.

"Maybe I can," Higgs is looming so close over his face, his sweat plopping against Sam's temple, "I'm not wearing a condom… I'm sure if I come inside ya', I'll knock you up."

More insane blathering from the weirdo – yet Sam is disturbed, that for a split second, he might have found the idea appealing. Then rationality takes over.

"I'm a _man_. Men don't get pregnant—"

Higgs snorts darkly, "ah, clever boy. If only _some_ people thought the same way… anyhow, that's a trifling problem for someone like _me_ ," the terrorist swings Sam's legs over his shoulders, "I'm _Higgs_ … the particle of God that permeates all existence. My powers are limitless, possibilities infinite; who's to say I can't?"

Basic biology, that's what Sam thinks. Yet… he's doubting himself a little. They're both repatriates. Both got DOOMS – so much of either condition is unknown, up in the air. _What if_ he could – or _did_ – get fucking pregnant? And then there was Mama, with her BT baby… Sam isn't sure of the science behind it, but Higgs, with ability to manipulate BTs… would the man be cruel enough to give him a baby that wasn't even connected to _this_ world?

It's stupid to even think about. _He's_ stupid, for even worrying about it, it's just insane talk. But Sam's heart races as Higgs grows quieter, his cock pummelling in and out of the courier's ass. There's a tinge of incoordination, something akin to impatience.

He doesn't want Higgs to come in him, to have the terrorist's semen inside of his body – whether it can impregnate him or not; he'd be marked, permanently. Yet Higgs is clearly aiming to, drilling his dick as far as it can go, grinding on the spot that has Sam's own penis filling back up to full hardness, rubbing against the abs of the other man.

Sam's Q-pid jingles as Higgs holds him close, his breaths harsh against the porter's ear. He's muttering something, although Sam can't make out what it is, all of his focus on the earth-shattering sensations building up once again; the orgasm that Higgs had deprived him of is coming back, somehow more intense than the last time.

"Slow down—" pleads Sam, the constant, quick rubbing against his prostate making him almost scream, and he hates himself for how weak he is to such delicious pleasure – the friction, the heat, the touch, which were once unknown, are now Sam's greatest downfall.

"Can't—" Higgs responds, face flushed and his make-up smeared, "oh, fuck, Sam, Sam, Sam—"

Higgs gives one last hard smack of his pelvis against Sam's ass, then swivels his hips while still inside, shoulders shaking, cock pulsing; too late the porter realises that Higgs is coming.

_Inside of him._

"No, no, pull out, _pull out_ ," Sam pushes at the man on top of him, but Higgs doesn't budge an inch, continuing to rut into Sam as he coats his insides with a load of hot, sticky cum. It's so burning hot that he can feel it shoot into him, filling him up. A sensation that should be nauseating, has the courier whimpering through gritted teeth instead – it's wet, slimy, and also strangely erotic as some of the semen overflows, dripping out of his hole and down the cleft of his ass.

"Ngh—fuck," Higgs wheezes. Slowly he drags out his cock, every inch making an obscene slick noise on the way. The sound is disgusting, yet it does nothing to dampen Sam's arousal – he's close to the edge, but Higgs looks spent. He can't be denied his orgasm for a second time, he'd go mad.

When the dick inside of him is nearly all the way out, Higgs pauses, peering at him with a mischievous grin.

"You haven't come yet..." the terrorist says, "do you want to?"

For a moment, Sam considers saying no. Then he realises what a waste of time that would be; left on the brink, he'd have to jerk himself off, and he's not sure which is more humiliating anyway – coming while being reamed by his enemy, or masturbating after it all.

So, Sam nods, quickly, with guilt lying heavily in his stomach. Only someone without restraint would willingly seek out pleasure from something that is borderline rape – he's a disgrace. If Bridget had a grave to turn in, she probably would be right now.

"Was that a yes?"

"Mhmm," grunts Sam, hoping that the noise alone will do. Saying 'yes' feels too hard – he's sure that the shame will choke him if he tries.

He needn't have worried, because as soon as he finishes mumbling, Higgs drives down his cock, pounding at his prostate _hard_ and taking Sam by surprise. The whines he had been containing burst out of his mouth, pleasure surging through Sam's body rapidly at the savage attack on the spots that make him writhe. He feels for sure that he's come, judging from the pool of what he presumes is sperm on his stomach – yet as Higgs' thrusts continue, the pleasure mounts, and mounts, every nerve, muscle and sense reaching shocking heights as Sam bites the back of a fist, gnawing at his knuckle to contain the sounds of his tormented ecstasy.

Fuck – Sam just wants to come, primal desire winning over rationality as he rolls his hips to meet every one of Higgs' thrusts, the entire lower half of his strung-out body becoming numb.

"C'mon, Sam, just let go," Higgs whispers, into his ear, "just come already, you motherfucker."

At the sound of the terrorist's gravelly voice ringing in his ears, Sam _does_ let go, body seizing up and teeth biting through the skin on his knuckle as he comes in great big spurts. His vision whites out as wave after wave of euphoria churns through him like a tumultuous sea, crashing through his veins and drowning out any coherent thoughts.

What feels like a lifetime later, Sam's orgasm ebbs away, his cock still flexing small streams of cum while his insides throb. It still feels _good_ , but he's a little more aware of his surroundings now.

Aware of the fluorescent lighting. The sweat on his skin. His breaths, shallow and fast. And, most disturbingly – his enemy collapsed on top of him, holding him while still sheathed inside of him.

It's over. He's been tainted, used. Awakened, to a whole different world – Sam exhales, shakily, although what he really feels like doing is crying – or even screaming – instead. A man he barely knew had fucked him, touched him, made him come, while the entirety of Bridges probably watched.

Lost in his ruminations, it takes him a few seconds to note that he's being flipped onto his stomach. Higgs' cock, that must've slipped out at some point, is entering him, _again_ , hard as ever.

"What— stop, w—we're done—"

"Done? After one round?" Higgs slouches over him, pushing his weight onto the porter's aching back, "fuck no. I'm going to breed you, Sam. Shoot in ya', over and over, until your stomach swells from all my cum… gotta make sure I impregnate you before I go, you see."

No, no, no, he has to escape—

"If you think about resisting, I'll make sure you'll regret it."

With that, Sam slumps on the bed, burying his face into the mattress as Higgs takes him for the second time. Then a third. Then a fourth.

Sam loses count after that, mind blank as the terrorist manipulates him into positions he never knew existed, forces him to come multiple times in a row until he's completely drained. It hurts. Not out of pain – the bastard is weirdly careful with hands stroking his hair, lips sucking on his skin as he murmurs questions about his well-being, some which Sam replies to, others he can't. No, he's hurting _from_ being handled with so much attention. It's too much for his fragile, bruised heart to handle.

And, oh, Higgs _does_ keep his promise to come inside. When a century later – or that's what it seems like, anyway – tormentor finally pulls out, a rush of semen bubbles out of Sam's hole, causing a puddle to form underneath him. He lies on his back, twitching, as Higgs sits on his heels, giving him a once-over.

When their eyes meet, the terrorist keeps the gaze for uncomfortably long. For how wrecked Sam feels, Higgs seems as composed as ever, only a touch out of breath and hair somewhat tousled, damp with sweat.

Realising he's staring, Sam glances away, skin prickling as the other man continues to look at him.

Eventually, Higgs sighs, deeply, sitting on the edge of the bed as he begins to dress. At the sight, Sam's heart leaps in hope – is it finally over?

Chancing it, he rolls off the bed, legs wobbling as he stands up. Fuck, his back is even worse than it had been to start with now, and he stumbles, cum and lube gushing down his thighs as he almost topples over.

In the nick of time, Higgs catches him, arm around his waist.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?" he teases, both playfully, and mockingly.

"Sink," Sam replies, all too aware of Higgs' hand on his flesh. Clarity is coming back to him, and with it, the phobia that had remained reticent for quite a while is revving back up, the touch of the terrorist forcing bile into his throat. Although, that could really be out of sheer disgust – Sam desires nothing more than to wipe the smug grin off of Higgs' face, who's looking like the cat that got three bowls of cream rather than one.

"Not the shower?"

"Later," Sam would love nothing more than to shower _right now_ , but not while the enemy is still in the room with him. He has a sneaking suspicion that it would tempt Higgs to join him, and repeat the process all over again. No – Sam can wait. He's already been dirtied enough for one lifetime.

"Shame… I'd love to watch you furiously scrubbing the sin away," sighs Higgs, helping the porter over to the sink, "maybe you'll even shed a few tears… or sit in the shower for hours, thinking, _remembering_ , what I – _we_ – did."

The sink activates as they near it, and Sam pushes Higgs away, running the tap and splashing his face with cold water. It doesn't make him feel any cleaner, but it's better than nothing.

By chance, he catches himself in the mirror. He looks miserable – eyes red, hair a mess, and small bruises on his neck, chest, shoulders, where Higgs had sucked. Well-fucked and used; Sam tears his eyes away from the sight. The consequences of what had occurred can wait until later.

"Don't look away," Higgs says from behind him, and when Sam checks the mirror again, the man is fully clothed, BB hooked to his chest, hood up. No mask – because, Sam's a little startled to realise, _he's_ wearing it, "this is what you've always wanted, isn't it? Someone to understand you, to set you free..."

The porter wants to shake his head, yet he can't move, not even when Higgs' finger runs up the side of his neck, sliding underneath the mask to pop it off.

"See you later, Sammy-boy—" he steps back, "—go run after that sister of yours. I'm sure she's waiting… for what, only she knows."

A loud crack fills the room as Higgs disappears, fine gold speckles dotting the floor.

Immediately, Sam hears static. A call? A hologram? He doesn't care enough to want to deal with either. It'll only be Deadman, or Heartman anyway.

As he turns, he's surprised to see the hologram of Die-Hardman standing before him.

"Sam," he starts pensively, "I don't know what to say, apart from… thank you. We could've lost another city in a voidout if you hadn't… given in to Higgs' demands."

If he hadn't let Higgs screw him, Sam corrects the sentence bitterly in his head. Not knowing how to respond, he merely shrugs, and walks through the director's hologram, heading for the shower for a second time that day. At least, Sam thinks it's the same day – his encounter with Higgs had felt more like years rather than hours.

With the usual respect to his privacy, Die-Hardman joins him in the stall. Biting back the retort to tell him to fuck off, Sam turns on the shower instead. Hopefully the noise of running water would drown out his voice.

"That shouldn't have happened," the director says, his voice booming over the speakers. Fucking great. Of course Sam can't escape him. It's dawning on him that Die-Hardman must've been watching him shower earlier – he seems to know Higgs blackmailed him into sex, as the terrorist had never threatened the city from outside of the stall. Judging from Heartman's call earlier – _only_ his boss is watching him. The revelation is troubling, but not wholly unexpected; Die-Hardman trusts him as much as Sam trusts _him_.

"But it did. Where was security?" Sam keeps his temper in check, but deep down he's somewhat furious that nobody even bothered coming to his aid. Why is the other man even here? The only thing Die-Hardman cares about is his fucking work, not him, not anyone – except maybe Bridget.

"Higgs didn't trigger any. There wasn't anything we could have done even if he had."

"Yeah. Just sacrifice me instead, why don't you?" Sam scrapes at his skin with his nails, leaving red streaks. It stings, but he deserves the pain, "bet you – Bridges – all started celebrating when I stopped resisting, because I know for sure you were watching – is that your new plan? Turn me into Higgs' fucktoy so he doesn't get bored and blow up a few more cities—?"

" _Sam_ ," interrupts Die-Hardman, "we won't do that, you're too valuable for the UCA, for Bridges—"

"Whatever," the courier cuts him off, sick to death of everything, "just go. I want to be alone."

"I will. Soon. Just – I have to ask," ah. There it is – the _real_ reason why the man had even bothered coming, "the supercell. The soldier you saw – did he… mention anything?"

Too tired to respond, Sam shakes his head in response.

"I see..." the man sounds thoughtful, "...rest for today, Sam. I hope you can put today behind you. The UCA needs you."

Then he's gone, too.

At the first chance he gets, Sam pushes two fingers into himself and scoops out as much of the terrorist's semen as he can. It's awkward, and he's tender down there, but he tries his best, swallowing a whine as fingertips accidentally brush against his abused prostate.

Despite how much he cleans himself out, Sam can't wash away everything. He's still soiled, impure, defiled – the thoughts have him pressing his back to the shower wall, sliding down onto the floor while the shower continues to run. He doesn't feel safe. Safe houses probably never will again, if Higgs can just warp in and out as he pleases.

Fucking Higgs. He has him by the balls and he knows it. The next time they meet, Sam hopes it's as far from civilisation as possible so he can wring his neck and watch the life seep out of the terrorist's eyes. Then he'd do it again, a million times, even after the inevitable voidouts.

It's just a pipe dream. The man is a repatriate, doomed to revive until the end of time – but imagining it makes him feel a tiny bit better.

Sam sits there, on the shower floor, daydreaming of Higgs' grisly murder until his fingertips prune up… blissfully unaware that such disturbing thoughts would have the terrorist giddy with unbridled delight, overjoyed in the knowledge that, at last, the porter is thinking about _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series (hopefully). Part 2...whenever. lol
> 
> MANY thanks go to the lads for proofreading and encouraging me! 💚💙💜
> 
> And to YOU, of course, for reading! 💖


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